


Sincerely Yours

by Ridiculosity



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Breakfast Club (1985)
Genre: A Freak, A Rebel, A Recluse, A troublemaker, Breakfast Club, Breakfast Club AU, Detention, F/M, Irene Adler is Amazing, Sherlolly - Freeform, Teenlock, The Baker Street Club, Warstan, a princess - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-03-23 05:06:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3755542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ridiculosity/pseuds/Ridiculosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We accept that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong. What we did was wrong, but we think you are inexplicably slow to make us write an essay on who we think we are. Not only is the topic absurd, but the execution would imply that you know us beyond the simplest of terms and the most convenient of definitions. </p><p>But what we have found is that each one of us is: a recluse; a troublemaker; a freak; a princess; and a rebel. [Breakfast Club AU]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 7:00 AM

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys. 
> 
> I'm sorry I haven't been working on Mockingbirds that much. The reason being I was working on this. 
> 
> This has possibly been the hardest thing I've had to write. I'd been thinking about writing a Breakfast Club AU for so long, and I finally did. It's so hard to adapt characters to a situation which is unchangeable, than the other way around. And I know I'm appealing to an audience that's seen the movie and Sherlock the TV show. But I love the Breakfast Club - you'll find nuances from the movie everywhere I could fit them in this fic. 
> 
> And I did all this thanks to the wonderful Beta Reader I got, Queen of the Beasties. 
> 
> So here you have it. Five teenagers spending detention together. Enjoy.

_Dear Mr. Magnussen,_

_We accept that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong. What we did_ was _wrong, but we think you are inexplicably slow to make us write an essay on who we think we are. Not only is the topic absurd, but the execution would imply that you know us beyond the simplest of terms and the most convenient of definitions._

_But what we have found is that each one of us is: a recluse; a troublemaker; a freak; a princess; and a rebel._

_Does that answer your question?_

_Sincerely yours,_

_The Baker Street Club_

* * *

 

_7:00 AM_

Saturdays had a tendency to be extraordinarily pretty and annoyingly sunny only when detention was handed out. That, or when personal obligations made it impossible for anybody to enjoy the Saturday. This Saturday was no exception.

The five students arrested and tossed into the compound that was the school were aware of the beauty of the particular Saturday. They had fought (violently, in some cases) to extract themselves out of this punishment which they feel was unfair. They were scrubbed and rubbed by what society had deemed appropriate for their particular _definition._ They were, in short, brainwashed.

The first to arrive was a pretty girl with short blonde hair and a bright smile. This smile was not available today – for she was scowling at the prospect of Saturday wasted. She sighed when she stared at the school which was supposed to be a place of learning. She was wearing a very _red,_ red; in the form of a jacket. Her clothes were expensive and pretty – jeans which were in style, with a white top. 

“I can’t believe you couldn’t get me out of this,” she said plaintively.

Her father laughed. “You’ll be fine, Mary. You did cut class, after all.”

“I know,” she sighed again. “Well, I suppose I shall see you later.”

She stepped out of the car. Her father passed her a lunch-bag. Mary Morstan walked inside the large building without looking back as her father drove off.

The next one to arrive was a boy, with sandy hair. The crinkles on his face were friendly, his demeanour relaxed and helpful. He too, had come with a companion. Once again, this happened to be his father.

“Look, you did something wrong – that’s all right. Just stop bringing your sister in it.”

John Watson glared at his father. “It was not her fault. Stop blaming her!” he said. It was remarkable how fast the friendly crinkles could vanish.

The third person to arrive was someone who came alone. Even more ostentatiously, the girl in question drove herself in a car. The car was not a particularly good one, or a very expensive one – it held the signs of being old and slightly rusted. Signs typically associated with one’s first car.

The girl had dark hair, and extraordinarily red lipstick. Her clothes looked expensive, but unlike Miss Morstan’s – they were stylish. Her shirt was one with a deep neckline, but which held itself comfortably around her shoulders, emphasizing some sharpness. And black, of course. In addition, she was wearing a skirt, and a jacket.

The fourth person also came alone. Dressed in a too-large Belstaff and with a distinct blue scarf, the boy shook his curls, walking, with a bored and disinterested expression.

The last person was a small figure, who stepped out of her parent’s car, paused briefly to talk to them and had the following conversation:

“Molly, hurry up and come home,” said her Mum tersely.

Molly Hooper nodded. “All right. I’m sorry for getting into trouble.”

“Maybe try not to get into trouble next time,” said her Mum. “We need you at home.”

Molly bit her lip, decided that it was time to turn and face the music.

She was brown haired, plain faced, and with a tendency to stick to the walls while walking. Open spaces frightened her a little, as did a lot of other tiny things. She was known to have very few friends and as such, even fewer enemies.

She was dressed in jeans and oversized clothing, which looked slightly old and just a little worn. There was a nervous expression on her face, for she was also a bit scared of spending time with five people she had never known before.

* * *

 

_7:10 AM_

The five students filtered into the hall they were directed to. Room 221B of the school was a gym and library together – an open area for communication between the two most incompatible social groups: the nerds and the athletes.

Whichever the case, the students walked down the hall to room number 221B, expecting nothing more than the fish eyes of the Vice Principal, Mr. Charles Augustus Magnussen.

Mary Morstan took one of the front seats, without smiling at John Watson (who sat down next to her). Sherlock Holmes (the fellow in the absurd Belstaff) sat down a row away from them. Molly Hooper tried to avoid everybody altogether, sitting right at the back, behind Sherlock Holmes. And Irene Adler (the girl who drove herself to the school) smiled at everyone without betraying a lick of unease, sitting down comfortably a few rows behind Miss Morstan and John Watson.

Mr. Magnussen entered the room, and paused to look at everyone briefly. He smiled a little, and way back, Molly Hooper shivered.

“Good morning,” he said. His voice was soft and not at all assertive, but cold.

Everybody else nodded in acknowledgement.

“I’m extraordinarily happy that all of you made it on time. I’d like to remind you, you have eight hours here - I’m sure all of you know why you are here, but you if you could, you should ponder the errors of your ways,” he continued. Sherlock glared at him.

“You may glare at me all you want, Mr. Holmes. I assure you, it will not help your position,” said Mr. Magnussen, looking at the glaring boy.

“Oh, I’m sure,” said Sherlock darkly.

“You are not to move from your seats,” continued Mr. Magnussen as if he had not heard Sherlock. “You are not to touch anything – if anybody makes an asinine comment on the limitations of these rules, they will be punished further. That goes for you, Mr. Holmes. Are we clear?” the question was so gentle, it was almost dangerous.

Sherlock defiantly kept his mouth shut, but it could be sensed that he wished dearly to say something. “Crystal,” he said.

“All of you have certain perceptions of who you are. While I care little for your teenage brains and whatever they are going through, I would like to understand – _intimately_ – who exactly you think you are.” The words were a threat, said gently and caressingly.

“The door will remain open during the duration of your stay. I trust you will keep yourself busy.”

Mary opened her mouth to say something, thought twice and shut it once again. The Vice Principal paused to watch her, raising his eyebrows to indicate permission to speak.

“It’s just that – I don’t think I should be here, sir,” said Mary.

The shark eyes continued to stare at her without mercy, and Mary fidgeted under their gaze. “Believe me, Miss Morstan. I think you would like to stay.”

Mary shrunk visibly, and sat down once again.

The Vice Principal disappeared behind the office doors, and the door remained open. Sherlock eyed him with distaste.

“Well, well, well,” said Irene Adler, relaxing comfortably on her chair. “This is a nice little get together. I wonder if Barry Manilow knows that Magnussen raids his wardrobe.”

These words are followed by John and Mary glancing at each other. Irene rolled her eyes at them. “As if you have never considered the possibility,” she drawled.

“That man is a shark,” said Sherlock viciously.

This was even more surprising, for Sherlock Holmes is a bit of an enigma. Whenever he spoke, he had a tendency to get on the bad side of people. Moreover, he performed a bit of a ‘magic trick’ – he knew everybody’s life stories without knowing them for more than five minutes.

And he didn’t speak unless the subject was worth being spoken about.

“How would you know?” asked John Watson quizzically.

Sherlock looked at the sandy haired boy, tilting his head a little as if to get a better view of him.

“Oh, he doesn’t, Watson,” said Irene, focusing on filing her nails. “Ignore him.”

Sherlock looked at her for a second, annoyed. Irene grinned at him – this only seemed to annoy him further. “Do be quiet, Adler,” said Sherlock.

“I’m sure I will try, Holmes,” said Irene, ignoring him in favour of her nails.

Molly Hooper, oblivious to whatever the drama between her other companions, began tapping on her desk with an alarming consistency. Her nervousness would be reflected in the tapping; however, everybody chose to ignore that in favour of staring at her behaviour.

“You keep doing that, you’re going to wear yourself out,” said Irene Adler finally.

Molly looked up nervously, and smiles at Irene, unsure of herself. “Leave her alone,” sighed Sherlock.

“Oh yes,” said Irene with relish. “I have seen you before. You’re friends with Mr. Virgin here, aren’t you?”

Molly gulped, and looked at Sherlock in panic.

“We’re chemistry partners, my dear Woman,” said Sherlock, rolling his eyes.

“I’d like to hear her talk,” said Irene, her eyes glittering.

John and Mary looked at Molly curiously.

“Um,” squeaked Molly. “He’s my Chemistry partner. That’s all.”

“So she does talk,” said Irene.

“Leave her alone, Irene,” said Mary.

“You’re singing the same tune then?” asked Irene. “Miss Mary Morstan, coming down to the lower levels of society, am I right?”

“Stop terrorising girls just because you can,” fumed Mary.

“Are you going to get your boyfriend down on me?” asked Irene in a lively voice. Mary shot her a look.

“Who am I?” muttered Molly to herself. She sighed. “I wish I was a butterfly.”

John looked at Mary and smiled reassuringly. “So what are the both of you then?” asked Irene, thoroughly amused. “Boyfriend and girlfriend?” she paused. “Lov _ers_?”

Mary didn’t say anything, choosing to look out of the window ineffectually.

“Come on, Princess,” said Irene. “Tell me all about it – is Watson here your little boy-toy?”

Sherlock did not bother looking up from his desk where he was furiously writing something in top speed. “He’s not,” he said.

Everybody looked at him.

“Well, it’s a little obvious, isn’t it?” asked Sherlock, exasperated, but continuing with whatever he was doing. “They’re not dating – but they do have an interest in each other. Look at the way she’s leaning in on John. The assurance of familiarity, the way he smoothed his hair when she entered, the –”

“Hey!” said John, angry. “Stop it. Stop pretending you know what you don’t.”

Sherlock looked up with a bemused expression. “What’s there to know? There’s possibly no one exciting here apart from maybe Morstan and obviously Adler.”

Molly blushed red. “Oh really, Holmes?” asked Irene.

Sherlock stared impassively at her. “I don’t need to explain why you might be a little less boring than everybody else here. And Mary’s hiding an American accent. God knows why, it’s almost invisible. Liar, liar, I smell.”

Mary’s hands dropped to her lap. There was a nervous wobble in her lips, but when she spoke, her voice was clear and her English accent perhaps clearer. “Stop making things up,” she said.

“ _Stop this, stop that,”_ said Sherlock, bored. He picked up the paper which had a number of words slashed across is, all gibberish. “What are we even supposed to do? All I’m doing is telling the truth.”

“No, you’re being a massive dick,” said John.

“That’s a healthy reassurance,” said Sherlock without paying attention. “I say, Molly, happen to have some dilute hydrochloric acid on you?”

Everybody turned this time, to Molly. Molly did not blink or fidget – she dug into her bag and extracted a small test-tube of the substance. “Um – I think that’s – erm, yeah, that should be hydrochloric acid,” she said. “Diluted,” she added.

“Thanks,” said Sherlock as she passed the stopped test-tube to him.

“So she simply has hydrochloric acid on her?” asked Mary.

Molly went red. “Um – Sherlock tends to ask for... well, strange things. At, um, odd times.”

“Fascinating,” said Irene. “Do you have concentrated acids?”

“No...” said Molly. She peered into her bag. “I have an orange. Heavy on citric acid,” she said brightly. Molly laughed at her own joke, but was not joined by everybody else.

“Don’t make jokes, Molly,” said Sherlock, concentrating on his paper. The room’s focus swivelled.

“And what are you doing?” asked John.

“I wonder what hydrochloric acid does to ink,” said Sherlock. He poured a little bit of it on the paper. The ink melted a little. Sherlock looked at John and grinned. “They were useless codes anyway. Even she,” he jerked a thumb at Irene, “would have broken them.”

“I’m insulted,” said Irene drolly. She extracted a magazine from somewhere in her bag. “I feel like we should shut the door. Magnussen wouldn’t like to hear us all _bonding.”_

“If you break one more rule, I’m going to scratch your eyes out,” informed Mary.

“Keep your knickers on,” said Irene. She looked at Mary thoughtfully. “Or rather, don’t – you’re funny when you jump out of your good-girl act.”

“Act?” asked Mary.

Irene only smiled.

* * *

 

“This is exhausting!” said Sherlock suddenly, falling back on his chair. He tore his paper into thousands of small little pieces in obvious anger, and scowled at the rest of the room. “For fuck’s sake – must he pick something so _obviously_ boring?”

It should be clarified: exactly ten minutes had passed.

John blinked at him, finding himself unable to say anything.

“Holmes, we’re all bored,” said Irene darkly. “What would you have us do.”

“Do something interesting!” said Sherlock, loud and exasperated. “Something! _Anything!_ I’m bored.”

“And we obviously exist for your entertainment,” said Mary, rolling her eyes.

“Well, you’re all idiots. You might as well.”

“And you’re not?” asked John.

Molly shook her head violently at John, but the question had already been posed.

“I can tell you your story without having ever known you. I can tell you hers, and hers and I already know Molly’s but I can tell you things about Molly even _she_ doesn’t know,” said Sherlock without pausing. John looked at him without interest.

Sherlock watched John for a second, before rattling off again: “Don’t believe me? You’re a straight arrow, a friend for most people, with one vice – you have a brother who parties and that is possible why you are in such a bad state with your parents and with your brother. You’re getting sick of covering his mess ups,” said Sherlock. He tilted his head at John. “Friends with Stamford and Lestrade. Odd, but all right.”

John blinked at Sherlock. “How on earth did you know that?” he asked. “Have you been spying on me?” demanded John.

“Hardly,” sneered Sherlock. “You’re not worth that much. It’s in your clothes and everything. It’s obvious you don’t get along with your parents, for the clothes haven’t been laundered in a while – your mother has been punishing you by forcing your jobs on yourself. How do I know you’re doing your chores yourself? Sloppy hands all over your grooming – the stitches in the tear of your jacket are uneven and untidy.”

Molly sighed.

“As for your brother. Obvious; he’s been the one to give you that jacket. It’s his because of the small tag at the back: _for Harry, love Clara._ He probably broke up with her, which is why he does not hesitate to give you jacket.”

There was a heavy pause after this demonstration. “God, Holmes, I’d fuck you under the table,” said Irene.

“Must you be so crass?” asked Mary.

“You would too, sweetheart, and you know it.”

John stared at Sherlock for a second. He was fuming.

“You got one thing wrong,” he said.

“I did? Always something,” said Sherlock. John said nothing. “Care to elaborate?” asked Sherlock.

“Harry is short for Harriet,” John said.

Sherlock opened his mouth, and shut it again. “Oh,” he mused. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” asked John aggressively. “Because she’s a homosexual?”

“What?” asked Sherlock blankly. Molly bent down to whisper in his ear for a second. Realisation dawned on his face. “Oh, that’s why. No, I don’t care what anyone’s sexual orientation is, as long as they aren’t stupid,” said Sherlock.

“You don’t?” asked John.

Sherlock shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“Well...” said Mary. “To most people... it kind of matters.”

“People are incredibly stupid regardless of their sexual orientation,” said Sherlock dismissively. “I was saying sorry because I guessed the wrong bone of contention between your parents and yourself. They obviously have more of a problem with her being a homosexual. I’m sorry you get the brunt of that.”

“I – uh. Well,” said John. “That’s remarkably decent of you.”

“Eh,” said Sherlock, now organising his papers in stacks to make a cityscape. “Go away.”

John looked at Mary to share a look of incredulity and easily aroused anger. Sherlock paid no attention to him, while Irene was smiling, however, she was smiling at Molly.

Molly shook her head at John gently. She tapped Sherlock on the shoulder.

“What?” asked Sherlock, aggravated. She handed him a bunch of papers. “Oh, thank you,” said Sherlock, glancing at the papers in interest.

“And while that’s all good,” said Irene, her voice having a sharp edge to it, “I’d like to know who is going to make the bold move of shutting the door? Obviously not Miss Perfect here. I don’t know about her little boyfriend either. Holmes could, but he’s lost already, thanks to whatever magic you gave him.” She waved a hand at Molly.

“Shutting the doors would be pointless,” said Sherlock, without looking up from his scan of the papers.

“And why?” asked John.

“Because Magnussen will just come back and open them. Take out the little screw in the joint between the wall and the door – door’ll stay closed.” Distantly, they heard a door open and shut. “That’ll be _him_ going to the water fountain,” mused Sherlock.

Irene gave a very, very wolfish smile at Sherlock. “You do have your advantages,” she said brightly.

“Don’t even think about it –” said Mary, alarmed.

“You haven’t been here before, Miss Perfect,” said Irene mockingly, waltzing up to the door. “I have.”

“Just sit back here –” began John, however, Irene had already placed a few perfectly manicured nails on the screw that Sherlock had pointed at.

Molly gave Irene a panicked look, and Irene winked at them as the door shut with a very permanent-sounding _thud._

“Oh, dear,” whispered Molly.

Irene rushed back to her chair. There was another distant sound of a door opening and shutting.

Sherlock tilted his head at Irene in anger. “We could have just sat here,” he hissed.

“You were the one getting bored,” shrugged Irene.

“This is not funny, Adler,” said Mary, terrified. “Put it back.”

“Be quiet,” whispered Irene. “Learn to break a few rules!”

John rolled his eyes at the small storm brewing inside the room, and got up. He rushed to pick up the fallen screw, putting it in his jacket. “Everybody, be quiet now. Adler, keep your face blank, for fuck’s sake. Holmes, _say nothing._ Mary, I know you’re not happy, but she’s right. We’re stuck here for eight hours. Molly, I kind of like you. You seem to be the only person with a little sense.”

Molly blushed red, grinning.

“Stop that,” he ordered.

She nodded hurriedly, composing her face.

The door opened and shut, however nobody looked up to see who was entering. The man looked at the five students, and adjusted his glasses.

“Is there a problem?” he asked softly.

John chose to look at the table while Mary conveniently avoided his eyes by scribbling on her paper. Sherlock was personifying the phrase ‘if looks could kill.’ Meanwhile, Irene simply continued filing her nails, and Molly twisted her scarf over and over.

“Why is that door shut?” he asked.

Sherlock shut his eyes. “I think a screw fell, sir,” he said.

Irene shot him a look, but quickly composed her face.

“I’m sorry?” asked Magnussen.

“A screw,” repeated Sherlock.

John caught Magnussen’s eye, nodding fervently. “It just shut, sir.”

“Do you think the falling of the door has anything to do with you all?” asked Magnussen. “Come on, Mr. Holmes. You’re supposed to be good at this.”

Sherlock grit his teeth. “I’m afraid I can be of no help this time, sir,” he said, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

“Really?” asked Magnussen. His eyes drifted towards Molly. Her face went very red, but she stared back in determination. Sherlock snarled at Magnussen.

“And can you help, Miss -?”

“Hooper,” supplied Irene.

Magnussen’s eyes surveyed this particular speaker. “I believe I asked _her,_ Miss Adler. You would do well to remember your place.”

Irene looked at him carelessly. “Does it matter? I’m in hell anyway.”

Magnussen smiled at that. “I would like to tell you that there are many other ways of ruining a student’s life than giving bad grades.”

“Leave her alone, and I’ll take the bad grades,” shot Irene.

“Unfortunately, that is not an offer I am giving you, Miss Adler. Now, Miss Hooper. Can you help us with this mysteriously falling screw?”

“She doesn’t speak!” said Irene loudly.

“Miss Adler, I am very close to awarding you detentions for the rest of the year.”

“Cut it out!” hissed John. Irene jerked her head at John and he mouthed, ‘ _Stop it!’_

Molly tilted her head at the teacher. She was green in the face and shaking a little. “I think it fell between the crack in the tiles, sir,” squeaked Molly.

Mr. Magnussen took the liberty to step forward, looming in her face. “Did it?” he asked.

“She doesn’t like it!” said Sherlock angrily, stepping out of his chair. Mr. Magnussen turned to look at him only slightly. Sherlock fell back in his chair, nostrils flaring.

“Whatever happened, I would like to know. However, in the face of your stubbornness, I can only choose to leave it to you. I would remind you,” and his teeth seemed inexplicably sharp at this – “That penalties can be a lot harder than what the school promises.”

As the man left the room, Sherlock glared at him with such unadulterated fury, rising into a very remarkable crescendo which lead to a loud and very audible “ _Fuck you!”_

The others sat down on their chairs once again, while Sherlock breathed heavily. Irene was watching Molly with interest. Catching her eye, Molly grinned suddenly and very mischievously. She dug into her bag, extracting a book from inside.

Molly looked at the cover briefly, and tossed it to Irene.

 _‘A Collection of Horrifying Poetry,’_ read the title. Irene smiled at Molly.


	2. 10:22 AM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI EVERYBODY. 
> 
> I'm loving the response this fic has gotten, really. People love the Breakfast Club! It's awesome. 
> 
> This one will be a bit slow, but I'm getting better at the whole thing. Obviously, my Beta (Queen of the Beasties) is literally the most amazing human being because she perfected every corner of this.

_7:45 AM_

The sun filtered into the Gym, its heat slipping in between the cracks of the wall. John watched, warily, as the door remained shut.

It was a strange set of teenagers that were sitting in the hallway. All of them, busy in their isolated world without knowing how similar they all could be. Their new found freedom of a closed door and a relatively unseen authority figure was being used to fall asleep.

Anticlimactic, in its own way.

Sherlock continued to read the papers Molly had given him, ruffling his hair once or twice, grinning now and again. His moods were as temperamental as his reputation – in a world defined by the path you choose, Sherlock Holmes chose far too many to be considered someone normal. He was a circus show, someone to be pointed at. For all that, he never seemed to care.

No one quite new Sherlock Holmes, apart from the fact that he was the most intelligent weirdo that had graced the halls. He walked by himself, a haughty expression in place, and destroyed all he met into cinders. The only friend he had was Victor Trevor – but Victor Trevor was hard to dislike. Sherlock Holmes was a dark little bad boy, and high cheekbones and a mysterious aura could get anyone into some of the crazier girls’ lockers.

Everybody talked about his elder brother; the one who went to Oxford, and who had never made any friends throughout his school life. Who had never dated, and never designed to make connections. The cold man who managed to control even the faculty.

It was never known what Mycroft Holmes had done during his school years, but whenever something went wrong, he was the person to call. No one quite knew how he made it to Oxford with terrible extra curriculars, but he did. And then there was his weird brother who solved problems of a different kind.

Sherlock Holmes solved mysteries.

He found where the missing earrings went. He knew who stole the bake sale money. He knew who played pranks. He knew _things._ Lots of things.

He walked alone, all the time. He was prone to outbursts. He grinned absurdly and without context. He was, in short, a freak.

People watched him, waiting for him to do something. All the time. He had a tendency to _sneer._

Among the others was John Watson, and there was both a lot and very little to be said about him. He was, in essence, a troublemaker. A troublemaker that fought as many people as possible everyday, sometimes just for the heck of it.

The curious thing about John Watson – or so people said, was that he was very _nice_ when you got to know him. Sadie Murray had confided to her friends that she rather liked him for he got her out of a tough spot with her parents once by pretending on the fly that she was with him in the library while she had been visiting her boyfriend. Chalteu, the boy who took shop and was normally quiet and distant had entered a fist fight for John Watson. No one quite knew over what, but Watson fought a lot as it is.

He was an angry fellow sometimes, but some people swore he was nice and kind and a lot of fun. It didn’t help him that his sponsors weren’t the best – there was nothing wrong with Greg Lestrade and Mike Stamford, except for the fact that they were a little distant from society. As such, no one took their word seriously.

John Watson was both an open book and an enigma. None quite knew what to make of him, and as such, he stayed a troublemaker.

It’s almost unfortunate how he got stuck in such a role, for he could be quite nice, as people said. And what people said, after all, was always right.

* * *

 

Mary Morstan was the blonde and blue-eyed beauty of the school. Hers was a predictable path – she was pretty, she was rich enough to afford good clothes, and she was friendly and open. She had nice manners and did occasionally go against whatever her parents said, making her a hallmark of teenage life.

However, Mary’s existence was always punctuated with brief little moments where she wasn’t quite sure of herself. It was almost invisible, but occasionally, she’d look unsure, or she’d be distant, far away, somewhere not very accessible by other people. This went by largely unnoticed, apart from the people in lower circles like Irene Adler’s which none quite paid attention to.

She was a good swimmer, and when she wore her swimsuit, she looked fantastic, apart from a rather visible scar on her leg which travelled across it. Her friends had asked her about it, and Mary had laughed and said something about falling off a car as a child. It was easy for them to buy the explanation.

She had never exactly had a boyfriend, no. Mary’s social life seemed to be limited to parties and girls – her friends said that she didn’t want a boyfriend. However, everyone knew that Janine Matthews was pressuring Mary to have a relationship. So far, it hadn’t worked.

Her grades were half decent, and she seemed to be set for life. If only someone could figure out why she looked so sad sometimes, the mystery of Mary Watson would be cleared for all.

And Irene Adler claimed there was something behind it all. One could only wonder, since one was not a genius.

Irene Adler was another thing. Daughter of rich business man Adler, she was hardly ever seen with her parents. She was a pretty thing, but her friends were... well, dangerous people.

Jim Moriarty, for one, could only be described as someone a little ‘round the twist. He was a mad little boy, prone to bouts of unexpected laughter, angry fits and unreasonableness. People said that he was cruel, even though he did not look it. It wasn’t quite known what the fellow did, but something people cited as a sure piece of evidence was whatever had happened to Lily Bates. She was never such a fearful little thing, but she jumped at everything now, and it had all happened after she dated Jim Moriarty. He still had Kitty Riley around his fingers, though, and no amount of warning had fobbed off the redhead.

Another one of Irene Adler’s friends was Sebastia Moran, and he was even more unsettling in many ways. Seb Moran was a bully, simply put, and a horrible, cold, cruel one. He had an ear into Vice Principal Magnussen, and it so, Moriarty had a speaking piece into the Vice Principal.

They were bad kids, in general, but where Irene Adler fit into that, no one quite knew. She didn’t have a hand in whatever they did, but she clearly had an odd sort of affiliation with them. She was never directly involved with them, but she didn’t seem to have the same kind of aversion either.

None of the girls liked Irene Adler, for she walked the halls like she owned them (she could own them, but that was a matter for another time). None of them liked her for the way she could walk the halls without unease, or worry. She was confident and an embodiment of the poetry of Maya Angelou – although none quite looked at it like that.

Irene Adler had all the boys behind her without trying, but she didn’t go on dates without favours. There was motive behind her eyes and she did not hide it. Perhaps that’s why she was disliked.

Molly Hooper was the last of the girls in the hall. She was small and petite, friendless and shy. It was a simple but devastating combination which prevented her from having too many friends. Which was a little sad, since she was a very nice girl by any estimation.

The clincher was that she was relatively new to the school – she had only joined in eighth grade, a cruel and unforgiving year, which was why she was unable to make very good friends. No one knew why she had shifted and no one cared. Molly Hooper was a wallflower, and people didn’t pay attention to her unless they really had to.

The only piece of gossip associated with Molly was that she was a friend of Sherlock Holmes. Holmes was picky in everything he did, so it made little sense that he would be friends with her. And by the way she blushed red when speaking to him, the few people who actually observed Molly Hooper for more than two minutes could see what _she_ thought of Sherlock Holmes.

She was quiet, for her traits were a lot ‘creepier’ than Sherlock Holmes. Molly Hooper could gut a frog in Biology class like no tomorrow, she knew her chemicals better than anyone else and she had a strange sense of humour. In many ways, she was avoided like the plague as well.

Sherlock Holmes continued with his scribbles on the paper, occasionally pausing to set something on fire or pouring water on another thing. He smiled periodically, but he was gradually distancing himself from whatever he was doing anyway.

The paper next to him caught fire (it was apparently an accident) and he put it out while looking around furtively. Molly rolled her eyes, but this went unnoticed.

Irene Adler looked around idly, lit a cigarette, and began painting her nails, all while looking through the book that Molly had given her.

Mary twirled her hair as she pondered the merits and demerits of pretending to dehydrate horribly and being allowed to leave. Something told her Magnussen would not fall for it as easily as Mrs. Hudson, the home science teacher, did.

John looked around listlessly, and began to play a silent game of cops and robbers. He aimed a gun of his hand at an invisible spot, possibly imagining their jailer, and shot.

Molly paid attention to none of this, focusing on her notebook. She drew, with a steady hand, a very precise and very pretty diagram of the heart from memory, frowned at it, and continued on a new page, now writing down a series of chemical equations. She grinned at the equations, passing them to Sherlock.

Molly tilted her head at her second creation, and began to draw all over again, this time making a bridge and some trees in winter. At this one, she smiled.

* * *

 

_10:00 AM_

Vice Principal Magnussen surveyed the sleeping children, smiled coldly, and without raising his voice, said, “does anybody need the lavatory?”

Five heads rose in a trance, and five hands touched the air in a combination of abiding rules and accepting authority.

* * *

 

_10:22 AM_

While John Watson cracked his fingers, Sherlock fingered books, looking through the titles. He did not treat the books with respect, in case anyone thought he would. Occasionally, he would toss a book away or rip the pages out without feeling completely horrible about it.

“That’s really intelligent,” said John, rolling his eyes.

Irene Adler looked up from her book, and almost smiled at John, while Molly continued to focus on her drawing.

“You’re right,” drawled Sherlock, punctuating his sentences with tears of a poor, decimated book. “It’s wrong to destroy literature... even if it is Aristotle, which History has proven to be wrong about nearly everything.”

John snorted.

“But he was kind of right about his cyclic theory,” said Mary idly.

“Only partly,” said Sherlock. “And even that he limited to a stupid pattern. He was an idiot, and only the idiotic fascination of rich Sicily into old things provided him his fame.”

“You take political science?” asked Irene, surprised.

“Well... um, my mum wanted me to,” muttered Mary.

“Why would you listen to people who aren’t even your real parents?” asked Sherlock dismissively, choosing to toss aside library cards.

A tinge of pink appeared on Mary’s face. She looked down at her skirt, and bit her lip.

“Don’t do that to her,” said John. Mary looked at him, surprised. “Even if they aren’t her real parents and she is hiding an American accent, she seems like a decent person. Leave her alone.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Do you listen to both of your not-parents then?” he prodded curiously.

“Holmes, you’re not very nice, you know,” said Irene without looking up from her book. “Leave her alone.”

“I’m not supposed to be nice,” snarled Sherlock. “I’m only asking her a question.”

“Well, I listen to both, I suppose. I have to,” said Mary, answering the aforementioned question.

“ _Hah!”_ said Molly, under her breath.

Mary turned to her, and Molly immediately grinned a little. “Shut up!” said Mary, angry.

“And do you like listening to people like that?” asked John.

“Does it matter?” asked Mary in a small voice. “I owe them – if you do believe Holmes, they’ve adopted me. They took me in when no one else did, right?”

John tilted his head at her. “That feels like a silly reason to obey,” said John. “You’re your own person. You should be allowed to do what you wish. Don’t feel sorry for yourself, Mary. It’s a bottomless pit.

Mary laughed in a hollow voice. “I’m not allowed to feel sorry about myself.”

“Do you get along with your parents then?” challenged Sherlock from his vantage point among the tops of the bookshelves.

“I suppose I’m an idiot if I disagree,” said John glaring.

“You’re an idiot anyway,” said Sherlock, jumping down from his perch and walking off. “Don’t be offended. Almost everyone is. But nobody gets along with their parents.” Irene smiled once again without looking up from her book.

John glowered at him, made a small private decision, and walked up to Sherlock. He aimed and punched, pushing Sherlock into facing him.

“Don’t talk about my parents,” said John quietly. “I will kill you.”

Sherlock looked at the boy for a second. His eyes lit up briefly, and he smiled. “ _Oh!”_ he said under his breath. “I used to think you got into trouble because of your situation!” he explained. “But I can see now that you simply _like_ getting into trouble.”

“Fellas,” said Irene without looking up. “Take it easy. No need to become best friends, come on.”

“What?” asked John, directing his question to Sherlock.

“You’re a thrill seeker!” said Sherlock excited. “That was the part of the equation that didn’t make sense! And now it does!”

“What is wrong with you?” asked John.

“Oi!” said Irene loudly. “Both of you, stop it. I don’t get along with my parents either. Do you see me fussing about how whacko it is?”

Sherlock snorted. “Please. You have enough confidence to bring anybody on your side,” he said.

“You don’t need to be awful to everybody,” said John.

“Honesty and awfulness are different,” said Sherlock. “You should know the difference.”

“You don’t even use anybody’s name apart from Molly’s,” John pointed out. He paused. “What’s your name?” he asked the one continuously preoccupied with her nails.

She smiled. “Irene.”

“Lovely,” said Sherlock dryly.

“What are your names?” asked Mary, looking at John and Sherlock.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” rattled Sherlock.

John took a breath, glancing at his shoes. “John Watson,” he said finally.

“What’s yours?” asked Irene to Mary.

“Mary.”

“Mary?” repeated Irene. “Well, wasn’t she known to be a virgin?”

“If I am, what’s it to you?” asked Mary.

“It’s nothing, but I bet you are one because your parents _told you_ to be,” said Irene.

Mary raised her middle finger with conviction. Irene almost looked pleased.

“I thought Holmes was wrong, but I’m not so sure anymore,” said Irene. “You obviously listen to everything they say.”

Mary looked at her shoes. “Not listening to them isn’t an option.”

“I don’t see any physical signs of abuse,” muttered Sherlock to John. Molly tilted her head at John. John looked shocked in the beginning, then sighed long-sufferingly.

Irene’s eyes narrowed. “I wonder...” she said to herself.

* * *

 

Distantly, a blue uniform supporting plump man was seen. Along with that was a white cart with numerous supplies for cleaning and clutter. As the man in question picked up a trash can from a classroom, he looked at the sitting kids.

“Hey Sherlock,” he said with a smile.

“Hey Angelo,” said Sherlock, looking up to the man.

“You know the Janitor?” asked Irene sneeringly.

Sherlock glared at Irene while Angelo squinted. “Well now,” said Angelo. “Sherlock once helped clear my name of robbing the school, Miss. He’s a lot better at recognizing that _peons_ like me listen to conversations and know everything about people like you.”

“Maybe Irene would like to pursue a career in the custodial arts,” said Sherlock under his breath and with a grin.

Irene mimicked his dialogue with crossed eyes and a stupid face.

“By the way,” said Angelo, “That clock’s a bit fast.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love reviews!


	3. 11:30 AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ahoy the famous Breakfast Club lunch scene!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably clarify something: the reason why many of the dialogues of the original Breakfast Club are being shared instead of assigned to one character is that I feel like the Sherlockian characters should be true to themselves, instead of fitting into the mould of what the amazing Clair Standish, John Bender, Brian Johnson, Andrew Clarke, and Allison Reynolds are who they are, while Irene, Molly, Sherlock, John and Mary are who they are. 
> 
> Secondly, oooh, lunch scene. To be honest, this one really had me stumped. Couldn't for the life of me figure what Irene Adler would eat. Then, InMollysWildestDreams came to the rescue, and I love her for it. 
> 
> Lastly, Queen of the Beasties is best. Her commentary during any and all Betaing is beautiful. God keep her safe from harm.

Chairs scraped, five children scarpered, a few burnt ashes were disposed off from Sherlock Holmes’ table, and Mr. Magnussen walked in.

He surveyed the room, while Molly let out an involuntary shiver. His eyes rested on her for a moment longer than the others. Molly averted her eyes a little.

“All right, _children,”_ said the Vice Principal.

 _From his tone, you could assume he was saying ‘people of an inferior breed,’_ thought Sherlock disgustedly.

“It’s eleven thirty. You have half an hour for lunch.”

“Here?” asked Mary.                 

Magnussen’s eyes turned on her, and she looked away. John’s hands balled into fists, while Sherlock looked faintly nauseated.

“Won’t we get something to drink?” asked Irene, eyes glittering.

“We’re really thirsty,” agreed Mary.

“Are you?” asked Magnussen. “Why doesn’t _she_ tell me, if all the females of the room are coming up?” He turned to Molly, and she shook a little visibly.

“Leave her alone,” said Sherlock with gritted teeth. “She doesn’t like it.” Magnussen’s teeth became visible when he smiled at her this time. “Let her answer.”

Molly gave a very sudden look towards Sherlock, wide, and pondering. “I have a really low tolerance for dehydration,” she said quietly.

Irene bit her nail and looked between Sherlock and Molly. “You heard her, Holmes,” she said.

“I did,” snapped Sherlock.

“And whether or not either of you heard her is irrelevant,” said Magnussen softly. “Miss Morstan, please go to the vending machine in the teachers’ lounge to get yourselves something to drink. Take Mr. Watson with you.”

Mary smiled unsurely at John, and they left the room.  John was nice enough to hold the door open for her, something that struck her as odd, since he had a reputation for being someone who caused pain.

* * *

 

_11:35 AM_

“So, what would you like to drink?” asked Mary, smiling at John.

“Vodka,” said John. Mary raised her eyes at him. “Right, sorry. Only joking. If I _did_ have vodka, I’d probably have _tonnes,_ though.”

“Are you always like that?” asked Mary.

“Like what?” questioned John.

“You know...” trailed Mary. “Kind-of-sort-of always on the brink of doing something bad for you?”

John laughed. “I’m conditioned for it,” he said quietly.

“Is that why you’re here?” asked Mary.

“I’m here because my oh-so-important Dad can’t afford to have a son constantly making trouble. He wants me to stay clean. That’s about as involved as he wants me to be with my future.”

Mary frowned at him. “I don’t believe you,” she said. “You’re a nice guy, you really are, but that can’t be the reason why you’re here. Too strong a personality for it. So why are you really here?”

“Forget it,” muttered John. “Why are _you_ here?”

“I cut class,” said Mary as if anyone would have guessed it. John raised his eyebrows at her.

* * *

 

_11:35 AM_

Molly smiled idly to herself as she leaned against the abnormally large statue of pointlessness. Her hair was down (she always told Sherlock she liked it better that way), and she was staring away into the distance.Sherlock peered into a book. “Hey, Molly. Want to see a picture of a man with elephantitis in the genital area?”

Molly looked up curiously. “Really?” she asked. Sherlock nodded briefly before burying himself again. Molly walked over. “That looks bizarre,” she said. “You can see the swelling. I think there are a few other pictures of diseases like this I’ve seen, but never one this bad. If he sat in a car, one whole part of him would take the other front seat,” added Molly with a giggle.

Sherlock gave a short bark of laughter. “I suppose. I saw this one instance where a boy’s eyes had these worms which were causing his entire body into the brink of collapse. _That_ was bizarre.”

“Are you both always like this?” asked Irene, almost exasperated.

“Does it matter to you?” asked Sherlock, as Molly brought the book closer to her eyes.

“Well, I suppose it does. It’s like watching a nature documentary of mating between two very exotic animals. Like the oil beetle of Greece,” she said.

“You have to be joking,” muttered Sherlock. Molly blushed.

“And what would you know about mating anyway?” asked Irene, directing her question more to Molly. “I already know Mr. Holmes here is a cherry.” Molly looked at her knees. “Oh, so are you one too?” asked Irene.

“I wish I was alone,” said Sherlock, exasperated.

“I’m not!” said Molly.

“Aren’t you?” prodded Irene.

“No really, I’m not.”

“Who have you done it with, then?”

Molly glared at Irene, turning beet. She motioned to Sherlock, one that could easily be misinterpreted.

“You did it with _him?”_ asked Irene, positively cackling.

“What?” said Sherlock sharply.

“No!” said Molly, horrified.

“Well, how else am I supposed to take you gesturing towards him?” questioned Irene.

“Did you do that?” asked Sherlock, his eyes blazing. “Really Molly, I thought you were beneath lies.”

“Give her a chance to explain, Holmes,” said Irene acidly.

“I just didn’t want _him_ to know... who I did it with,” Molly muttered softly.

“That’s absurd. If I wanted to know, I’d have found out,” said Sherlock.

“I know,” said Molly. “That’s why I didn’t want you to know.”

“Well, who did you do it with then?” asked Irene.

Molly mumbled something incoherent.

“I’m sorry, what?”

She looked at Sherlock worriedly.

“Jim Moriarty,” she said, her voice extraordinarily tiny for an unbelievably loud sentence.

 Sherlock backed away a little, staring at her like she had grown a random pair of horns without any warning. Irene’s expression had cleared almost instantaneously: from shock, to fear, to worry and to the usual ‘I-don’t-give-a-damn.’ She looked at Molly closely before asking, “Why would you do that?”

“Why would you care?” snapped Sherlock. “You’re his friend.”

“I’m no more a friend of his than a piranha,” said Irene tersely. “And this not the time to get upset about that. Are you okay?” she directed her question to Molly.

Molly nodded, face pale. “Fine,” she whispered.

Irene squinted at her. “I’m not very sure,” she said.

“Oh yes, it’s obviously of utmost importance that Molly Hooper slept with that gay specimen,” mumbled Sherlock. Irene shot him a reprimanding glare.

“He’s not!” said Molly.

“It’s a little obvious, with all the product in his hair and his very green underwear poking out whenever he’s around a boy he likes,” said Sherlock derisively.

Molly looked like her whole world was going into pieces for that moment.

“It’s okay to have done it,” said Irene consolingly. “Even if it was with the most dangerous boy in school.”

Molly said nothing.

* * *

 

_11:40 AM_

A few Coca-Cola cans were supplied to everyone in the room. Sherlock glanced around and shook his can, until it had built pressure, then punching his can so that soda spilled on his desk in the most unconventional of ways. Everyone could tell he was really bored, which was why he was heavily avoided.

“What’s your lunch?” asked Irene to Sherlock.

“I haven’t the slightest,” said Sherlock distractedly. “Where’s your lunch?”

Irene grinned at him toothily. “You’re wearing it,” she said.

“Charming,” said Sherlock disdainfully. “Goddammit,” he said, pushing the stuff in his bag. “Where is my Geometry case?”

“Shouldn’t you be eating?” asked John. “Looking for a lunchbag instead of a Geometry case?”

“What?” asked Sherlock, his arm shoulder deep in his bag. “Oh – _no._ I ate...fish and chips, was it? Yes.” He paused for a second, thinking about it. “A while back, yes. I’m not hungry.”

John shut his eyes, placing his forefinger and thumb on the bridge of his nose. “Molly, how long has it been since he has eaten?”

“Two days,” said Molly, taking out her own lunch. “Mrs. Holmes was upset.”

“You won’t happen to keep something extra with you, do you?” added John hopefully.

Molly grinned. “I always bring something. He’s almost never eaten, and hardly ever brings lunch.”

Everyone paused to stare at the length of her sentence. Molly blushed, ducking under the table to take out a sandwich. She tossed it to Sherlock, who caught it mid-air.

“Thank you,” he said to Molly coldly.

Molly flushed further.

“Now why on earth are you mad at her?” asked John, exasperated. “Nevermind.”

Mary decided to ignore all this in favour of her food. As she pulled it out of her bag, Irene and John stared at her.

“What’s that?” asked Irene, looking a bit nauseated.

“Um... whole wheat muffin. Washed lettuce and some salad.”

“Good lord, what’s that smell?” asked John, wrinkling his nose.

“Bananas!” said Mary defensively.

“You wouldn’t go against anything your parents say, but you’d eat that?” asked Irene.

“I’m hungry,” said Mary plaintively.

“God, _they_ are the ones forcing you to eat this crap, aren’t they? Have you ever even had ice cream?”

Mary tossed some lettuce at Irene, saying; “Go away,” as prissily as possible.

John rolled his eyes, taking out his lunch. Well... whatever could be called a lunch. It really didn’t look very good for the stomach.

Mary and Irene stared at John as he took out a very greasy and cheesy burger. John glanced at them. “What’s your problem?” he asked aggressively.

“Oh, nothing. I was just wondering that if that’s the amount of calories you intake everyday, whether or not mitosis took place and you split into two. Hence your current thinness,” said Irene.

Molly paid attention to none of them, focusing more on her own food. She pulled out a packet of crisps. As she opened the packet, she made a lot of noise. It was a rather unavoidable consequence of eating chips.

“What on earth are you eating?” asked John.

“Um... bread and butter?” said Molly.

“Why does he get the sandwich with the onions and the lettuce?” prodded Mary, pointing at an oblivious Sherlock.

“I don’t like onions?” said Molly nervously.

“No, that’s not it,” said Irene.

“She didn’t have the time in the morning,” said Sherlock.

“What?” asked John.

“She has to take care of her siblings, make their breakfast and get ready. She doesn’t have time to make herself anything good.”

Molly went red. “Stop it,” she whispered. “It’s my business.”

“I had no idea,” said Sherlock sarcastically. “What happens at Molly _Hooper’s_ house is easy to imagine. With five siblings and a mother who is overworked, it’s close to impossible for her to have some time for herself.”

Molly blinked, opened her mouth, and then shut it again.

“You twat,” hissed John. “Let her alone.”

Molly looked angry and embarrassed at the same time. John glanced at Mary in the silence.

“Shut up, Holmes,” said Irene derisively. She opened a box of something from her bag.

“Strawberries? _Really?”_ asked Mary.

“Sweet and sour at the same time, darling,” said Irene with a wink.

“How do you survive on strawberries and cream?” asked John.

“I have an image to uphold,” said Irene, eyes glinting.

“You and I both know you have leverage that can avoid that,” reminded Sherlock. Irene made an obscene gesture at him. Sherlock smirked.

“What must it be like to have an image to uphold,” said Mary quietly.

“Wouldn’t you liked to know?” asked Irene.

“You have it easy,” said Mary quietly.

“Yes, it must be easy to constantly make use of my sexuality for safety,” Irene shot back.

“Come off it,” said Mary.

“Oh really?” asked Irene. “Here’s the leverage Mr. Holmes was _talking about.”_ She tossed Mary a picture framed in leather.

Mary rolled her eyes in a very exasperated way, glancing at the picture. Her face paled.

 “What on earth?” she whispered.

“The Principal’s son with me, _naked_. On school premises, too,” said Irene. “When you associate with people like Jim Moriarty on a daily basis, you have to make sure they can’t break you down and chop you up for doing something absurd like having a fall out with the man they needed to supply them drugs.”

“He’s not that dangerous,” scoffed John.

That was when Sherlock looked at him closely. He shook his head slowly.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said John, an edge to his voice. “What could Jim Moriarty do?”

“Remember Carl Powers?” asked Sherlock quietly.

“Yes...?” said John slowly.

“He had a small fight with Moriarty before he died in the pool. Nobody ever found his favourite shoes,” supplied Irene helpfully. “It’s taken Holmes a little long to figure out how. And anyway, he won’t be able to do anything about it. Magnussen.”

“You’re bluffing,” said Mary, horrified.

It was funny how little it took to convince them of Moriarty of having done something like that.

“So you see, Miss Morstan,” said Irene. “There’s a reason I have to eat as little as possible. Because everytime I cross the Principal’s office, the only thing I heard is a direct transcript from Stanley and Blanche’s off screen rape. ‘She’s got nothing,’ says Jim. ‘We shall have to be rid of her,’ says the good Principal Smallwood. ‘Leave her to me,’ says the loathsome little Vice Principal. I have to make sure I don’t get thrown out of the school with no future except for being a sexually manipulative spider. And for that I have to currently be a sexually manipulative spider.”

She slammed her fist on the table, walking away as fast as possible.

There was a silence of many people thinking.

“You shouldn’t have said that,” said John.

“I didn’t know she was telling the truth,” said Mary in quiet remorse.

* * *

 

_11:45 AM_

As the Vice Principal walked out of his office, darkly contemplating everything around him, a few students peeped out of the room they were confined to. Room 221B had never seemed more trapping.

Irene Adler lead the delegation, walking confidently. Beside her was Sherlock Holmes. “This is a bit pointless,” he whispered to her. “How do you know where he went?”

“Down boy,” Irene whispered back, scrutinizing her surroundings. “You and I are both bored out of our minds. We need something to relax ourselves.”

Behind them walked John and Mary. “Why are we going to Adler’s locker?” asked Mary.

“I don’t know,” said John.

“What if Magnussen comes back?” asked Mary, panicking.

John sighed.“Here,” he said, giving her leftovers of his burger. “Try something wrong, for once.”

Mary squinted at him, cracking a small smile. She ate the leftover burger quickly.

“Being bad feels pretty good, doesn’t it?” asked John.

Mary almost smiled.

And right at the back walked Molly Hooper.

* * *

 

_11:48 AM_

The locker has no stickers on the outside, but there was a print of a red lipstick near the handle. “Is the lipstick some sort of warning?” asked Mary, almost curious.

“A warning and a beacon,” said Irene, concentrating on opening the locker. “Here we go.”

It was a mostly empty locker, with some sets of books. There was a make-up kit, a scarf which Mary raised her eyes at. Nailpaint, and a phonebook. Irene ignored the rest of the trash in her locker in favour of a brown package extracted from the upper shelves.

The brown package was unwrapped repeatedly, like some bizarre ‘will-you-marry-me’ gift. Except a lot untidier, and smelling of something very awful. Molly sniffed experimentally, and light dawned on her face. John wrinkled his nose, while Sherlock sighed complacently. Mary tapped her fingers, almost bored.

“Here we go,” said Irene, taking out the weed.

“Drugs?” asked John incredulously.

“Put it back, Adler,” said Mary tersely.

“Drugs?” repeated John, just a little bit hysterical.

Irene walked away, with Sherlock and Mary following her. John shut his eyes again. “She has marijuana. And it’s impossible not to assume that Holmes isn’t in on it either.”

Molly pressed her lips and looked at John.

“Do you approve of this?” asked John. Molly’s mouth fell open, and she said nothing.

* * *

 

_11:50 AM_

“We’ll go through the art studios and double back from the music rooms,” said Sherlock.

“I hope you’re right about that,” said John worriedly.

“Relax,” said Sherlock with a grin. “I thought it was the threat of being caught that was holding you on?”

“Please, not now,” said John, peeping from the walls.

Sherlock smiled smugly.

They walked down the corridor, before noticing a very impeccable suit on a man who was walking gently down the corridor, a little oblivious to the five panic attacks that ensued.

All five of them ran in the opposite directions, trying to calm down the multiple heart attacks that threatened to destroy all of them. Sherlock calmly mouthed this way as they took another turn into Magnussen’s rounds. John frowned, took a breath, ran after him for whatever was worth. Irene took off her shoes (they had heels), chasing behind the boys.

Mary ran, not far behind, as they yet again ran into Magnussen. She was beginning to think that the man had made copies of himself to walk all around the school. Considering his reputation, she really wouldn’t put it past him.

Molly was the only one who managed to maintain herself as she ran. With sensible sneakers, she paced herself until they paused in the middle of some godforsaken corridor.

“Let’s go from the lunch room,” said Sherlock, a little out of breath.

“Oh, no,” said John. “We’re going through the activities hall!”

“Don’t be stupid!” said Sherlock angrily.

“Sherlock, so help me God, I will punch you if you don’t listen to me right now!” said John. Then, he ran in the opposite direction.

Molly waited for a few seconds, before tugging Sherlock with her, smiling a little. Sherlock flinched away from her, glaring as he ran behind the other group.

 _Olive branch accepted and rejected_ , thought Molly.

They rushed across the school, pausing every now and then to throw looks behind their shoulders. Stationary shop, boys’ locker, shower rooms, maintenance cupboards, classrooms one to eight.

They sped up a little more, breathing heavily.

Nurse room, equipment rooms, box rooms, drama studios, main stage, _blocked door._

“Oh, fuck,” whispered Mary.

“Perfect,” said Sherlock.

“Goddammit,” said John.

“We’re all dead,” said Mary.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” said John. “Irene, hide the drugs.”

Irene threw the packet to Molly. “Toss it down the front of your shirt,” she instructed. “I hope you’re wearing a bra.”

Molly nodded quickly. Irene gave looks to the boys to turn away for a bit.“It might show?” she questioned. No one noticed Sherlock peeking only a little.

“No one is paying attention to you,” noted Irene. “Okay, done. Nothing showing. I’ll also remind you that in the Odyssey, the farmer who used to be rich until stolen away by a slave escaped while the slave stuffed down goblets down her bosom. You’ll be fine.”

“All right, one problem down,” said John. “Now, all of you go down the cafeteria. I’ll distract him.”

“John, _no!”_ said Mary.

“I have a record,” said John with a smile. “Plus, it’ll piss my Dad off. That’s always worth it.”

Mary rolled her eyes, but John was already off, singing consistently (in a very bad voice), “I want to be an airborne ranger!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope all of you appreciated the fact that I managed to squeeze in 'Elephantitis in the nuts' somewhere XD 
> 
> You might have noticed that canon elements from both BBC and Doyle are showing up. I did pull Irene Adler back to her original roots a little. 
> 
> Reviews are my sustenance. I cannot live for long without them.


	4. 12:10 PM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS I'M SO SORRY FOR ABANDONING THIS. SERIOUSLY. 
> 
> I have no excuses. I hit a block while writing this, and then I simply became lazy, and after that I procrastinated my way till today. Thank my beautiful beta, who managed to get me to finish this.

_12:07 PM_

They waited.

Molly twitched unnecessarily. Sherlock watched the door with a Cheshire cat like smile. Mary tapped the desk slowly and deliberately. Irene stared into a distance. Gradually, they heard the unmistakable voice of Magnussen, taking John up. They glanced at each other, united in a common cause.

Magnussen entered, with John in tow. He looked upon the room as John gathered his stuff.

“Mr. Watson here decided to go the Gymnasium,” he informed the others, for effect. “I’m afraid I shall have to keep him to myself for the rest of the day.”

Mary shuddered visibly.

“I’m shocked,” said Irene drolly.

“Miss Adler, you may believe you have certain immunity when it comes to the authority, but I assure you, you don’t,” said Magnussen. He approached her, levelling to her eyes. “You’re a very pretty thing, yes. But just because you have proved more resourceful than I expected doesn’t mean I cannot break you.”

Molly’s hands balled into fists.

“I can burn everything you love. Including your home. Your parents. Even your drugs.”

“Impossible sir,” Irene shot back. “They are in Hooper’s bra.”

John bit back a laugh. Magnussen stood up, surveying Irene icily. Irene did not back down.

“Well, Mr. Watson,” he said, without looking at John. “Since you find it funny you’d better laugh away from everyone else.”

Magnussen watched Irene as she continued to return his cold eyes. “Are you going to cry now, Miss Adler?” he asked.

Molly stood up in her place in one swift move, throwing her chair back. She didn’t say anything, but Magnussen turned to her. She returned his stare as well, but her hands shuddered.

“Yes, Miss Hooper?” whispered Magnussen. No one had trouble hearing him.

“I found it funny,” she whispered back.

“More is the pity, Miss Hooper,” said Magnussen softly.

He took John by the arm, and crossed the room, and out. John did not look back.

* * *

 

_12:25 PM_

John climbed into the vents, praying to God no one heard him. He heard a door open on the other side, and then close. Sending another plea to anyone who would listen to him, he began crawling.

“Okay, here we go,” he whispered.

“Shh,” whispered John.

“This is more tense than the Naked Blonde joke Greg told me,” said John to himself.

He stopped, listening for anyone. There was a silence from below. Then: “Watson’s climbing through the vents.”

Blast Holmes.

“What?” asked someone else. The voice was too loud to be Molly and too polite to be Adler. Mary, then.

“He’s approximately there. He’s stopped for some reason. The vents must be creaking.”

After that John decided not to concentrate on them, choosing to crawl gently a little more. Without a warning, one of the shafts of the vents opened, and John jumped back.

“ _Jesus,_ ” he whispered. And then: “ _Sherlock!_ ”

A curly haired head poked upwards. It turned to face him and grinned.

“Nice of you to join the party,” said Sherlock. “Adler was just considering smoking up without you.”

“And Adler is obviously a priority of mine,” said John. “Now budge downstairs. I’ll come down with you.”

“Nice risk you’re taking there. Where did you buy it?” asked Sherlock.

“ _Sherlock_!” said John angrily. “Let me go.”

“You act like I’m holding you hostage,” said Sherlock. “I would remind you that you are free to leave of your own volition whenever you want.”

“Except you’re blocking the way,” said John.

“Except for that.”

“Sherlock!” said an angry voice from below. “Get a damn move on before I throw a fantastic concoction of chemicals out the window where you can never get them.”

“God, what a pain,” said Sherlock, climbing down. John climbed down behind him. “Thanks Molly,” he said. Molly nodded.

“You idiots, Magnussen is coming,” said Mary, around the corner of the Faculty lounge.

“Dammit. Okay.”

John climbed down from the vents, while Sherlock sat down on his seat. Molly grabbed a chair at the back, away from everyone (as usual), while Mary and Irene sat down side by side, more to their surprise than anyone else’s.

“Is anything the problem?” asked the Vice Principal.

A collective shake of heads took place.

He tilted his head at everyone.

John’s head bumped against the top of the table. Irene immediately improvised, coughing a little.

“Would you like a cough drop, Miss Adler?” asked Magnussen coldly.

“No thank you, sir. I have an allergy that acts up,” said Irene politely.

“What allergy would this be, Miss Adler?” asked Magnussen.

“Allergy to humidity and – y’know. Slimy things.” She looked up to smile at Magnussen, while Mary’s jaw dropped and Molly’s eyebrows became lost in her hairline.

Magnussen’s lip curled. “I should have that checked, Miss Adler. It may go out of hand any time soon.”

“I will, don’t worry, sir,” said Irene, returning to her former polite self (a self which baffled everyone in the room, Sherlock Holmes included).

Magnussen turned to leave the room.

As soon as the door shut behind him, all five people took a collective breath. Molly caught Irene’s eye, and turned to look at Mary. Mary seemed to be asking Molly a question to which Molly had no reply. Sherlock and John looked at each other, and then at Irene. Irene stared stonily back.

Absurdly, all of them burst out laughing simultaneously.

“His... face...” said John, between breaths.

“’Slimy things,’” said Mary unable to stop herself.

“I can’t believe he didn’t know,” said Sherlock, after his brief chuckle which proved that he was beyond everyone else, as he was a genius.

Irene smiled dryly. “Nice of you to enjoy the one time I could have gotten into serious trouble.”

“There is no love lost in this circle, Adler,” sneered Sherlock.

“Well, there may be,” said Molly timidly. “I like her.”

Sherlock clicked his tongue in annoyance, and Molly twitched, shrinking in on herself.

Irene jutted her chin out. “I like you too,” she said to Molly. Molly held Irene’s gaze, smiling slowly. Irene paused. “That’s all you get. I’m not up for best friend cookies and sunshine rainbows.”

Molly laughed briefly. “No, I wouldn’t make you do that.”

“Hence my liking for you,” said Irene. “Now, how about some of the stuff in your bra?”

Momentarily scandalised was followed by dawning realisation as Molly pulled out the bag of dope.

“Really?” groaned Mary. “Here?”

Irene gave her a simpering curtesy, and left the room and went into the back. The remaining four looked at each other, wondering what to do.

Sherlock got up and left, promptly.

“Oh, fuck,” said John as he too got up and went behind them.

Mary sighed. “On my way,” she said to herself.

Molly glanced at the empty room, and sneaked a can of coke away to drink later, before following the crowd.

* * *

 

_12:50 PM_

John giggled. “Oh, this feels nice.”

Sherlock only looked grumpy.

“You sure you don’t want any, Holmes?” asked Irene, blowing some smoke into the air.

“Marijuana relaxes my mind and makes me enjoy my surroundings. To remain at optimum, something like cocaine would work a lot better,” rattled Sherlock.

Mary blinked at him soulfully. “But you won’t do that, right?” she asked.

Sherlock sighed. Molly stood behind the bunch, watching.

“What about you, Hooper?” asked Irene.

Molly shook her head rapidly.

“Why not?” asked Irene, blowing smoke out of her nostrils.

“Um... well...”

“You know, I’m so happy right now,” said Mary. “I’ve never been better. My parents suck, my god. But everybody in this school loves me – maybe because I’m really kind most of the time.”

Molly blinked.

Irene winked at her. “Probably because of that,” said Molly. “I’ll start rattling off the medical names of our different fingers, probably.”

Irene gave a short laugh.

“God, I didn’t know it would be like this,” said John relaxing back. “I could enjoy math right now.”

“Don’t you normally?” asked Sherlock.

“No?” frowned John. “I don’t think I do?”

Sherlock sighed.

“Loosen up, fancy pants,” said Irene.

Molly took a rapid sip from her coke.

* * *

 

_01:04 PM_

“Oh, _lord_ ,” said Sherlock as he saw John do an impression of someone American.

Molly glared at him for a full minute before deciding on something in her mind. Irene seemed to have noticed Molly thinking for her grin turned very strangely upwards.

“Give me one of those,” said Molly quietly.

“Really?” asked Sherlock.

“Why not?” asked Molly. “What have I got to lose?”

“Your sanity?” prodded Sherlock. Irene continued to watch. “Your control over your mind?”

Molly looked at him acidly. “You do it. Maybe it will be experiential.”

“I do it to enhance control,” Sherlock said.

“You do it to drown out the voices in your head,” snapped Molly.

Mary looked between them. “Sherlock does drugs?” she asked, frowning.

Molly rolled her eyes. “Give me one?”

Irene handed her a joint. Molly rolled it around experimentally in her fingers. “Alright,” she breathed. “Want a light?” asked Irene.

Molly leaned forward as Irene lit her joint up. “Here we go.”

* * *

 

_01:35 PM_

“You guys?” said Mary softly. “I’m really sorry I was mean when I came in.”

“You weren’t mean to me,” said Molly. “’S all right.”

“To Irene. And even after she gave us this,” sighed Mary.

“Well, we’re out, ladies,” smiled Irene.

“Pity,” said John. “It felt good.”

“That’s the point,” said Irene.

“I’m not horrible to people, you know,” said Mary. “I like pets. And baking my own bread. I’ve just... gotten into things that I can’t exactly get out of.”

Sherlock smiled amusedly. “I can tell.”

“’Course you can,” said Mary.

Irene walked away. “God,” she whispered. Sherlock’s eyes flitted to her. “Be quiet,” she supplied.

“I shall,” said Sherlock.

“Uptight bastard,” muttered Irene.

Mary wandered away, going to the bathroom. She returned looking a bit clear eyed. “Hi,” she said by way of explanation. She spotted Irene’s expensive looking bag. “What do you keep in that bag?” asked Mary. John stood up straighter.

Irene scanned Mary’s eyes. Mary smiled hopefully. She dumped her bag out. “The photograph. A few books. Make up. Bills. A knife. A pepperspray. What do you keep in yours?”

Mary dumped out her bag as well. There were a few make up pieces, lots of school books, a phonebook that seemed to be overflowing with names, and a cookie dough bag (“I was going to make some after this,” said Mary sheepishly.) There was nothing particularly startling in it. Mary eyed the small phonebook with photographs attached from Irene’s stuff.

“Clients,” said Irene.

“Right,” nodded Mary.

“What does Sherlock keep in his wallet?” asked John.

Sherlock tossed his wallet to John.

John opened it out. A near perfect fake ID, a few cards, smelling of something funny, bills which John prefered not to explore and a set of cards and phone numbers. He looked up questioningly.

“Clients,” said Sherlock, his lip curling.

“Right,” said John.

Funnily enough, he spotted food coupons. He raised his eyebrows while Mary sat down on the floor.

“Those are for a friend,” said Sherlock. Mary giggled inadvertently, while Molly blushed.

“I want to know what’s in Molly’s bag,” said Irene curiously. “She seems to have diluted acids on her at all times, what other little monsters could be living there?”

Molly blushed, clutching her bag closer. “There’s nothing there.”

Sherlock looked up. He searched her eyes, and tilted his head. “She has a _boyfriend_ ,” he said.

“What?” said Molly. “No! I don’t!”

“It’s as obvious as day,” said Sherlock. “Come on, Molly. Surely you've all seen the present at the bottom of the bag, perfectly wrapped with a bow.” He strode forward, emptying out her bag, pouring out sets of flasks and test tubes, carefully corked together. Molly opened her mouth and shut it again.  “There’s no occasion, and Molly’s family is poor; her mother depending on her for support, so she’s been saving up for it. It's for someone special, then.”

He picked out a small red present, tied carefully and neatly. “Either way, Miss Hooper has love on her mind. In fact, that she's serious about him is clear from the fact that she's giving him a gift at all - that would suggest long-term hopes, however forlorn – that she’s seeing him later is obvious from that fact that she has a more flattering pair of jeans stuffed in the bag, as well as some negligible make-up - obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts...”

He picked out the card, reading it.

_To Sherlock, love Molly. (I didn’t know your birthday was in January! Your mum told me about it.)_

“You always say such horrible things,” said Molly quietly. “Everytime. Always.”

There was an awful silence in the room while Sherlock stared at Molly with a strange sort of incredulousness.

Tears slipped out of Molly’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m being silly. Your mum told me about your birthday, and you always refused to tell me. I saved up a little to buy you something.”

Sherlock continued to look at her. “I am sorry,” he said finally. “Forgive me.” He looked like he was on the verge of doing something, but he did not. Instead, he chose to carefully examine her eyes: extraordinarily brown, he noted. Sherlock had a penchant to be awkward in social situations, and this was one of them.

Molly had been the one who told him to look at her when he was in a social situation he could not escape. So, with nothing to do he looked at her eyes, and without realising what exactly happened, realised that he had missed them.  

Molly nodded briefly, hiccupped, and walked out of the room.

“You twat,” said John.

“He’s just jealous,” said Irene. “I promise you, Holmes, you have nothing to be jealous of.”

“Why is he jealous?” asked Mary.

“Because Molly slept with Jim Moriarty,” said Irene acidly. “Sherlock, you know that he did that probably to get to you, and it’s very easily possible that he hurt her into it? That he bullied her? That he raped her?”

“What?” said Sherlock, blank, for once. “No! She should have known, anyway!”

“Did you ever properly warn her against him?” asked Mary quietly.

Sherlock’s face should have said it all.

“The girl is an island,” said Mary, looking after Molly’s retreating steps. “She has to keep everything to herself, and she’s slowly being driven mad.”

Nobody said anything to that. “I’ll go,” sighed Sherlock.

“I don’t think she will say anything to you,” Mary pointed out. She walked away, following Molly.

*

_01:50 PM_

“Molly?” asked Mary.

“I’m just coming out,” said Molly hurriedly, wiping her eyes.

“You know, you have to stop doing that,” said Mary. “Hiding away your tears and all that.”

She laughed in a watery way. “Who’s going to pay attention?”

“Well, for now, I am,” said Mary. “And you hide your tears away from yourself. You’re almost as emotionally stunted as Sherlock there. What’s the point of denying your unhappiness to yourself as well? Then not even _you_ can listen to your problems.”

“Well, I sort of hope that if I don’t pay attention to it, it will go away.”

Mary laughed. “It hardly works like that. Come on, wash up. What’s wrong?”

Molly shook her head, but her tears threatened to burst again. She started sobbing.

“Is it Sherlock?” asked Mary.

Molly nodded, and then shook her head.

“What’s wrong?”

“My Dad,” said Molly. “He’s dying.”

“Ah,” said Mary. She gave her a hug, and Molly began crying in earnest. “He’d always been sick, and that’s why we were poor: we had to make sure he was _alive_. But now he’s been diagnosed with cancer, and they say he has three months, and _I_ just –”

“Siblings?” asked Mary.

“Three,” nodded Molly.

“You have to take care of them as well, I presume,” said Mary. Molly nodded jerkily.

“What about your mum?” added Mary.

“She ignores me otherwise...” said Molly. “Sherlock’s my only friend.”

“And a sad excuse of one,” muttered Mary.

“Oh no,” said Molly earnestly. “He’s really nice sometimes. Once when I was sad, he brought me a dead swallow to examine.”

“How romantic,” said Mary dryly.

Molly laughed. “He’s not expressive with these things. You have to squint to see his love.”

“If there is any,” prodded Mary.

“I hope there is,” sighed Molly.

Behind the wall, a very curly haired Sherlock Holmes’ heart skipped a beat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are lovely, but I don't deserve them now :( 
> 
> Once again, I will try to stick to deadlines.


	5. 2:07 PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The improvised scene of the Breakfast Club, done by the Baker Street Gang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it is done. Let me just say that I enjoyed writing this so much. I got so many reviews on this, and so many of you were ready to give me advice on how to get it right, that the monumental task became so much easier. Throughout writing this I felt like a serious pressure, because I was writing something concerning the BREAKFAST CLUB. Messing this up would have been awful. 
> 
> And you'll find that I have mixed and mingled and matched and made and IMPROVISED the main Breakfast Club scene, where the five of them talk about their lives. I hope I did it justice. 
> 
> More than me, it was Queen of the Beasties that made this whole fic what it was. She was brilliant, and beautiful, and my God, she was good at making me focus on what was important. She's a brill Beta Reader. This chapter is dedicated to her.

_2:07 PM_

The world would have collapsed if it had witnessed the scene at the back of the library. Mary Morstan, John Watson, Molly Hooper, Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes were sitting, collectively, and seemed to be enjoying themselves.

“Yes, but the hypothetical situation is _impossible_ ,” said Sherlock, frustrated.

“Sherlock, for God’s sake, what you are proposing is _impossible,_ ” said John.

“It is _impossible_ for Professor Black to have been killed by _any one_ of those insipid sods that were in his manor!” said Sherlock.

“It’s _not_ possible for him to have killed himself,” said Mary, unable to hold back her laughter.

“That’s the only logical conclusion!”

“Yes, but the game is not about whether or not the insipid sods would have been able to do it or not,” said Irene reasonably. “I mean, it’s more a game of probability. Which of the three cards are going to end up in the deck, see?”

“And, the point of the game is to read into what the other people have and trick them into believing you have the cards that they don’t,” supplied Molly.

“Hear, hear,” said Mary.

“The game is irrelevant in the face of a murder!” exploded Sherlock.

“Well, solving the murder won’t help you win the game. On the other hand, solve the game, and you win it as well,” pointed out Mary.

Sherlock fumed silently.

“Look at it this way,” said John. “If you had been concentrating on the game between yourself and Jim Moriarty, then you’d have won, instead of being side tracked by Carl Powers.”

“And what do you know about murders?” asked Sherlock scathingly. “I was the one trying to solve Carl Powers. I’m the one actually _involved_ in murders.”

“You’re the one calling me a thrill seeker!” said John defensively.

Sudden grins are terrifying things even at the best of times. Sudden grins on Sherlock’s face are a cue to evacuate the building. “I called you that. _You_ have to admit to the problem.”

“Why would it be a problem?” asked John.

“You’re a boy interested in medicine fighting on the football field almost every week. Your hands shake in situations, and your psychiatrists says it’s because you get into trouble too much and you should calm down. You should probably fire her, because all your time in this detention hall, and your hands haven’t shaken even once, apart from the dreary period before lunch. You’re not haunted by trouble. You love it,” said Sherlock.

John did not have anything to say to that. He opened his mouth, and then shut it again.

“So, John Watson. Are you a thrill seeker?”

“You know, you just have to answer the question,” said Irene.

“Yeah,” nodded Mary. “Just answer the question.”

“All right,” said John. Breath. Inhale. Exhale. “I may be a thrill seeker. But that should mean you are one too. You and your murders.”

Sherlock gave a short bark of laugh. “No one would let a fifteen year old near dead bodies. I never did _murder_ properly either. I’m not a thrill seeker. I’m a high functioning sociopath.”

“Oh, for god’s sake!” said John, sending a prayer to all the deities above and beyond. “You are _weird_ is what you are. You say barely anything and when you do say something, it’s _insane_.”

“Well, what did you expect?” asked Molly. “We’re all pretty bizarre. Some of us are just better at hiding it than others.”

“Yeah?” asked Sherlock. “How are you bizarre?”

Molly looked away. “I don’t count.”

A pause, as everyone in the vast room took the information in. Sherlock’s eyes turned away, and for a second, John could swear he saw shock and anger. “Don’t say that,” said Mary quietly.

Molly turned away from Sherlock. “Why do you care?” she muttered.

“Because being invisible hurts a lot,” said Mary.

“And how would _you_ know?” asked Irene venomously.

“Believe it or not I did used to be invisible once upon a time,” flared Mary. “And that American accent Sherlock says he is detecting? He wasn’t lying. You think you know the best of me without ever knowing me. How are you any better from Magnussen?”

Distantly, a bird sang. “Mary, whatever it is, I think you should get it off your chest,” said Molly softly.

“I used to be American,” said Mary, her voice croaking.

“I think all of us gathered that,” said Sherlock with some asperity. “Was it espionage?”

Mary nodded. Tears began to fall down her cheeks.

“Young for being a spy,” said Irene distantly.

“It wasn’t my fault! It was my birth parents... I – look. Let’s not.”

“Why not?” asked John.

“Because you won’t like me if I told you everything,” said Mary, crying.

“Then we don’t need to know,” said Molly hurriedly.

“It’s my parents,” whispered Mary. “And Magnussen. They keep... making me remember it. You know why I’m in here? I had to cut class. Not because I went shopping. Not because I had something remarkably normal to do. Because I was ‘asked’ to gather some information on one of the school board members. I wasn’t able to get what was needed... hence.”

Molly looked away.

“They’re horrible,” said Mary. “They don’t let me do anything I like. I used to enjoy painting. And baking. I’m not allowed to do any of that anymore. And I have to go for the awful political science class instead of maths. Apparently, I should go into politics. You can guess why.”

Sherlock’s eyes shifted. John covered his eyes. Something horrible, something awful, something unthinkable was happening, and Irene could not look away from Mary.

“They’re these mindless machines that I can’t even relate to anymore,” sobbed Mary. “’Mary, you have to be the best in the school. You have to make sure no one could suspect. Mary, your skills will make sure you are at the top.’ I hate them. Sometimes, I wish my knee would give. Then I would not have any skills at all. And they could just... forget about me.”

There was a silence. “I think your parents and my parents should get together and go bowling,” said Irene.

Mary choked out a laugh.

“I wish I could get out of it,” said Mary.

“Well, you could,” said Molly hopefully.

“How?”

“Well,” said Molly, chewing on her lip. “It all depends on Monday, I suppose. We’re your friends. If we’re friends on Monday, we’ll help you out of it.”

No one said anything.

“I mean, if all of you consider me your friends,” said Molly hastily. “Because I consider you my friends...”

“Yeah, you’re all my friends,” said Irene. “Sort of. I can’t believe I became friends with such dorks. Apart from maybe Molly.”

“Thanks Irene,” said Molly gratefully.

“My parents...” muttered Mary.

“You can’t live with that forever,” said Sherlock harshly.

“You don’t know the pressure...” whispered Mary.

“ _I_ know the pressure,” said John. “You want to know what I did to get in here? I beat this boy up for hurting my sister.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” said Mary.

“You know that kid Larry Brown?” asked John. “I gave him a black eye.”

“Why?” asked Sherlock curiously.

“He chopped of Harry’s hair,” said John. “The other girl – Melissa. She dyed Harry’s uniform the colours of the rainbow. Well, she tried to. There’s a bunch of girls that regularly steal her clothes. My sister isn’t a substance abuser because she’s popular and parties a lot. My parent’s _hate_ the way Harry is. And when I gave that kid a black eye, all I could think about was their attitude towards people who are different.”

Mary looked at her knees.

“They hate her for not being... normal. And she’s going mad, I can tell. She’s my excuse for the thrill seeking that Sherlock’s talking about... but she’s also my sister. She can’t be forced to drink teas and liquids to bring her back to sanity all the time. They are going to give her electrotherapy soon. And this poor kid. Having to go home. Telling his parents what he did and why he did it. And they probably... congratulated him.”

Irene broke a pencil in anger.

“I couldn’t help it. They expect me to take a similar line. But I won’t. I wouldn’t and I _will not_. So yeah, Mary, there’ll be pressure. You’ve just gotta... value things that are more important.”

“Okay,” whispered Mary. “Yeah.”

“My God,” said Irene. “Are we going to be like our parents?”

“Not me,” said John.

“It’s unavoidable,” said Molly. “Just happens.”

“What is?” asked Mary, on the verge of tears.

“When you grow up, your heart dies,” said Molly, crying as well.

“Who cares?” muttered Sherlock distantly.

“I care,” said Molly softly, chewing her lip.

“My sister isn’t being driven insane because of heartless corporations or her phone. We’re the ones doing it to her,” said John. “And you know?” he said softly, The really funny thing is, that if she had only like boys, she would be able to drive herself insane on her phone instead. And I can’t even tell which is worse. Although I suppose the fact that she has to hide her talent for writing should be the worst.”

“I can gut a frog in science class with real precision,” said Molly suddenly.

“Really?” asked Mary interestedly.

Molly nodded eagerly. “I can cut up birds. I can even do cockroaches, and that’s supposed to be really hard.”

“I can bake bread,” said Mary. “I can make my cat food, and I can bake almost anything.”

John smiled. “I can hurt you really bad with a strong left hook.” They looked at him. “Alright, so I can also knit. But I only do really lame jumpers.”

Mary laughed.

“Molly has seriously lame jumpers,” said Sherlock.

“Yeah?” asked John.

Molly nodded, laughing between watery snorts.

“I can make you scream within forty five minutes,” said Irene. “Seriously, I can do it. Men, women, I’m good at both.”

Everybody started laughing.

“What can you do?” motioned Mary towards Sherlock.

“I can figure out your life story within five minutes?” said Sherlock.

“Come on, Sherlock,” said John.

“I can... I can end up in detention for bringing my dog to school. One who is incidentally called Redbeard,” said Sherlock. “I wanted to be a pirate as a child. Mycroft has still not let it go.”

The rest of them get a star for trying. They really did _try_. But it’s hard not to laugh at that.

“Really?” asked John, being the first to burst into laughter.

“It’s not funny,” said Sherlock.

Stifled giggles continued to run riot.

“Yes it is,” conceded Sherlock with a sigh.

Molly looked around, and smiled. “You wanna know what I did to get in here?”

John smiled, nodded gently.

“Nothing,” said Molly with a grin. “I wanted to get away from my family.”

Laughter broke out in earnest at that. Irene fell to the floor laughing. Mary gave Molly an awkward half hug, as Molly said, “You’re laughing at me.”

“No!” said John, while he held the chairs for support.

“Yeah, you are,” said Molly, laughing as well.

The laughter continued for a while, melting into the sunlight and away. The window of the library was wide open, and the wind blew in, surprised to see five children in school on a Saturday.

Saturdays had no business being so pretty when children had to laugh inside jail-like structures.

* * *

 

_2:45 PM_

The library looked very empty, but the tall bookshelves and the shapeless sculpture were hiding away five teenagers.

One of them was blonde, pretty, with a friendly smile. She was wearing a red sweater, but it was patterned dorkily. She had taken off her shoes, and was sitting in similarly dorky patterned socks.

There was a self confident young woman, who had her hair down, and her shoes off as well. She was wearing a rather unflattering dark jacket, and the shade would indicate that it was borrowed from the boy who was blonde.

There was a blonde boy, who had taken off his warm and danger inducing jacket, in favour of a nicer looking jumper. He had friendly crinkles near his eyes.

There was a boy who was no longer wearing a Belstaff, but his dress-like formal shirt didn’t help much. He didn’t smile a lot, but his scathing remarks could be taken as smiles, in a way.

There was a tiny girl, who was brown haired and was laughing, freely, openly, without any burdens.

Collectively, they were playing Cluedo.

* * *

 

_3:03 PM_

John put his normal jacket on, and Sherlock put his Belstaff on. Sherlock gave John a side-along glance.

“I play the violin at odd hours. It helps me think.”

“What?” asked John.

“Potential best friends should know the worst about each other.”

“And we’re potential best friends?” asked John with a sly grin.

“Well... it’s too – cheesy a word for me,” said Sherlock, frowning. “But I suppose it shall suffice.”

“Then, as your potential best friend, I’d advise you to kiss Molly Hooper,” added John.

“Oh, so you acce – hang on. What?”

“You heard me, you absolute wanker. Please do it before someone else does.”

“I don’t have anyone to fear,” said Sherlock.

“You could, with Mary and Irene in the picture, willing to go the extra mile to make sure Molly wears some make-up. Just saying.”

Sherlock stood there, staring, as John Watson disappeared into the vents.

* * *

 

_2:50 PM_

The four students had returned to their original clothing as they sat on some stools near a counter. Mary shook her hair. “Hey Sherlock?” she asked.

“Mmh?” said Sherlock, concentrating on a Rubik’s cube given by Molly.

“Are you gonna write your paper?”

“Maybe, if I am bored enough. Then again, I could spout off some twaddle and avoid another detention all together. So I suppose it’s a yes,” said Sherlock.

“Well, it would be a waste if all of us wrote our papers,” said Mary. “Because we’d all say the same thing.”

“You just don’t want to write your paper,” said Sherlock, the cube nearly completed.

“True. But you’re also the smartest,” said Mary.

“Don’t engage me in empty rhetoric and flattery,” said Sherlock. “But fine. I’m done with this anyway. I’ll write the – essay – paper – thing.”

“Great.”

Mary folded her fingers together, and then glanced at Molly and her floppy jeans.

Molly looked at Mary. Mary smiled. “Come on,” she said.

“Where are we going?” asked Molly.

“You too, Irene,” added Mary. Irene glanced at Mary, and then had a prolonged look at Molly.

“All right,” said Irene.

“But where are we going?” asked Molly, nervously.

“Darling, I’d rather not tell you,” said Irene with a wink. Sherlock’s fists balled up as he watched the girls go.

* * *

 

_2:52 PM_

“Don’t be afraid,” said Irene darkly, as she stuck an eyeliner pencil thingy into Molly’s eye. The washroom mirror may not have seen anything odder.

“I’m not, I’m not!” said Molly, tears pricking her eyes simultaneously.

“Molly Hooper, if you do not stay still I will jab you with this,” said Irene rudely.

“You’re rude,” supplied Mary, as she brushed Molly’s cheek up.

“What did you expect me to be?” asked Irene, exasperated.

“Do you always carry random clothing items?” asked Mary.

“You never know when you might have to stop and meet someone,” said Irene.

“I’m not changing my clothes!” said Molly.

“No, I won’t make you do that. We can’t get you to dress as someone you’re not,” said Mary.

“We can’t?” snorted Irene.

“We can’t!” said Mary. “We’ll just... emphasize her Molly-ness.”

“Her Molly-ness?” repeated Molly.

“Yeah. You know. Dorky patterns, no sense of make-up, and pretty eyes.”

Molly stared at the pair of girls. “If you can do that while making me look pretty, I’ll cook you both frogs’ legs.”

“Ew, Molly!” exclaimed Mary. “How can you eat frog?”

“They’re delicious!” said Molly. “I had to gut them for the first time, and it seemed such a waste to throw the badly gutted ones, I looked up some French recipes. I’ll make them in garlic and sage and butter!”

* * *

 

_3:15 PM_

The door in John Watson’s prison opened. Expecting Magnussen, he stood in attention, only to be greeted by Mary Morstan.

“Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” said John. “Are you lost or something? Because I’m afraid I can’t get out of this place, you know.”

Mary shook her head slowly, smiling.

* * *

 

_3:15 PM_

Irene walked into the library. Sherlock Holmes was quietly writing a paper, and seemed to be almost done with it, whatever it was.

“Heads up, Holmes,” said Irene with a smirk.

“What?” asked Sherlock. “What are you –”

Molly peeked from behind the door, and walked in, unsure of herself. She was wearing a cherry red t-shirt, which clung to her very body. The floppy jeans looked nice on her. Her hair was finally pushed back.

She took a few deep breaths.

“Come on, Hooper,” said Irene. “We haven’t got all the time in the world, yeah?”

“Um – uh. Yeah. Erm. Can I have a little water?” she asked.

“You have some in your bag,” said Sherlock, staring at her.

“Right,” said Molly.

Sherlock continued to stare, as Molly took out the bottle and took a long draught. “Um,”she said. “Yeah.”

“Molly,” said Sherlock, clearing his throat. Irene grinned in the background. “What happened?”

“Mary did it. And Irene,” said Molly hurriedly. “Why?”

“No, you look... aesthetically pleasing,” said Sherlock. Irene rolled her eyes.

“Thanks?” asked Molly.

“Jesus Christ,” muttered Irene under her breath. “And _he’s_ supposed to be the smartest.”

* * *

 

_3:25 PM_

Mary had had a total of three kisses in her life. One was a drunken boy at an awful party. The other was a peck by her cousin. The third was a boy who had mistaken her for his girlfriend.

John was the best kisser out of all of them.

It was almost strange, how his hands gripped her waist, his lips pressed against hers. He was extraordinarily deliberate, and Mary whimpered a little when he kissed.

“Did you hate it when I was indecisive about being friends with you guys?” asked Mary self consciously.

“Truth?” asked John.

Mary nodded.

“No. I understand _that_ particular pressure really well,” said John.

* * *

 

_3:30 PM_

“So, um,” said Sherlock. Irene looked up hopefully in the background. “Do you think you’d be able to find me some concentrated sulphuric acid by next week?”

Irene smacked her forehead. _Come on, Molly. **You** kiss him_.

“Yeah, I think so. Dr. Brenner is going away for the week, and I’m in-charge.”

“Christ almighty, they’re slow,” said Irene, annoyed.

“Molly?” blurted Sherlock.

 _What does he want now?_ Thought Irene dourly. _A bottle of cocaine?_

“Yeah?”

“Would you like to go out tonight? I know a great fish and chips shop. The owner always gives me extra portions.”

 _TOOK HIM A FUCKING CENTURY_ , Irene mentally screamed.

“Did you get him off a murder charge?” asked Molly with a smile.

“No, I helped him put up some shelves,” said Sherlock with a similar smile. Irene rolled her eyes.

Molly laughed. “I had a really great day. And I wouldn’t mind doing it again. But you’re... just asking me as friends?”

Sherlock’s blue-grey-green eyes were extremely stormy. He got up, towered over her. “No, I don’t think so,” said Sherlock. “You look very pretty, Molly Hooper.”

Molly blushed red. Sherlock bent slowly down, kissing her on her lips. His lips were demanding, and hungry, but at the same time, very careful. Molly’s hands lost themselves in his hair. Irene rapidly looked around for another source of entertainment, ended up rapidly leaving the room and swearing to herself when she stubbed her toe.

Molly broke off, laughing nervously. She turned to Sherlock. "I'm a little surprised, to be completely honest. She has excellent balance, from what I see. If she tripped too hard, she may have seriously sprained her ankle, and it'd be all green and blue."

"Really? But what if she twisted her leg?" asked Sherlock, his hands not leaving Molly's hair.

"Then she's need someone to twist it back," frowned Molly. "And she may have seriously hurt some of the ligaments connecting to the tissue attached to her Femur." 

* * *

 

_4:00 PM_

The four teenagers trooped out of the school. They looked very tired, very hungry, and oddly, very emotionally wrung.

“See you next Saturday,” said Angelo to Sherlock, as he left.

“I’ll be there,” said Sherlock.

Molly’s car was parked, with her Mum on the wheel. “I’ll see you later,” said Molly.

“Tell your idiotic brother to stuff it, if he disagrees,” said Sherlock helpfully.

“Sherlock!” reprimanded Molly. She entered her car, and her Mum drove away without any questions for Molly.

John kissed Mary, before her car entered the driveway. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Shut up, Sherlock,” said John.

“I didn’t say anything!” said Sherlock.

“I could hear you rolling your eyes,” said John.

“See you dorks on Monday,” said Irene, entering her car, and starting the engine.

“Later, Adler,” said Sherlock.

“You know her name is Irene?” asked John, while entering his car. His Dad was driving, and having a very good look at Mary.

“Irrelevant,” said Sherlock. John laughed, and Sherlock smiled. “We can’t giggle, it’s a school,” said Sherlock.

Irene blew him a kiss, and drove away.

* * *

 

_Dear Mr. Magnussen,_

_We accept that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong. What we did_ was _wrong, but we think you are inexplicably slow to make us write an essay on who we think we are. Not only is the topic absurd, but the execution would imply that you know us beyond the simplest of terms and the most convenient of definitions._

_But what we have found is that each one of us is: a recluse; a troublemaker; a freak; a princess; and a rebel._

_Does that answer your question?_

_Sincerely yours,_

_The Baker Street Club_

* * *

 

Sherlock walked back home, taking a shortcut through the school field. On his way, taken by an inexplicable surge, he threw his Rubik’s cube away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, them playing Cluedo was my version of dancing together to We Are Not Alone. It's been amazing.
> 
> I'm so happy the Breakfast Club exists.

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are lovely!


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